


The Fourth Time

by jarjol



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dreaming, M/M, post-3b finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarjol/pseuds/jarjol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Derek dreams about Stiles, he wakes up with a bullet in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>But after that, it's different every time.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fourth Time

The first time Derek dreams about Stiles, they’re in the Beacon Hills locker room and Derek is struggling to remember how he got there. It’s terrifying, trying to put the fragmented pieces together when he isn’t even sure what the big picture is supposed to be. But Stiles is there, concerned and attentive, and it makes Derek feel reassured. It’s easier to complete the puzzle when he’s got someone helping him, someone he trusts, the one who has (quite literally) kept his head above the water. So when Stiles tells him to count his fingers, he does.

 

1\. 2. 3. 4. 5… **_6._**

 

The first time Derek dreams about Stiles, he wakes up with a bullet in his chest.

 

 

The second time Derek dreams about Stiles, they’re on Derek’s bed together. A warm, golden light is coming through the windows of Derek’s loft, and when Stiles throws his head back to laugh at something—Derek doesn’t even know what—the light envelops him, wraps his frame and gilds his every feature. Derek is mesmerized, content to lie back against the pillows and just _look_ at the boy sitting at the foot of his bed.

Stiles sees him staring and gives him a soft grin.

“Something wrong, Sourwolf?” he asks as he crawls forward until he’s directly above Derek on all fours. He leans back, sitting up with one knee on either side of Derek’s hips as he gazes down at the other man in speculation.

Derek just grins.

“No. Everything’s perfect.”

He reaches up, trailing his fingertips up and over the skin of Stiles’ forearms, brushing through the hair as his fingers trace the toned musculature they find there. When his hands reach as far as they can go with him still lying down, he looks up at Stiles and frowns in a silent plea. The boy laughs but obliges, leaning forward until his forearms are bracketed on either side of Derek’s head. He arches an eyebrow in question.

“Better?”

Derek hums his assent, hands already moving to discover the new territory now within their reach. The touches—up Stiles’ sides, over his ribs, his hips, his collarbone—are light, unhurried, intimate but more exploratory than sexual. The skin under his fingertips is soft and warm, and it makes Derek feel safe. Comfortable. Grounded. He moves his touch up Stiles’ neck, and it continues over his lips, nose, and eyelids before moving to his ears.

Stiles breathes a laugh before pressing a kiss to Derek’s forehead and rolling to flop down beside him. They lie there on the bed, facing each other with mirrored smiles. Mirrored touches, too, as Stiles mimics Derek, hands starting to roam in brushes of skin.

Derek sighs, content, and slings an arm over Stiles’ side and uses it to draw him closer so that they’re flush against each other. Stiles grins, hums, as Derek draws his hand back, skimming his knuckles along the outside of Stiles’ arm. He stops when he reaches Stiles’ hand and rubs his thumb across the boy’s palm and then moves to stroke over each graceful finger. More unconsciously than anything, he counts as he goes, the numbers hazy and quiet in the back of his mind.

 

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… **_6_**.

 

There’s a cold sort of shock that comes over him, stopping his heart briefly at the realization, and something sours in his mouth. Stiles gives him a concerned look when he tenses.

“Hey, you okay?”

“This is… this is a dream. This isn’t real,” Derek manages to grind out, but it’s hard to speak with this new weight on his chest. Stiles sits up a little and glances around the apartment as if to discern for himself if it’s actually true. He shrugs, then drops back down beside Derek and brings his hand up to Derek’s face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone in a gentle repetition.

“Does that really matter?” he asks.

Derek pauses, thinks for a moment, then catches Stiles’ hand in his own and brings them to their sides. He shifts closer, tilts his head in more, and does his best to breathe the other in. The weight on his chest lessens.

“No,” he says, and intertwines their fingers. He’s careful not to count them again.

 

The second time Derek dreams about Stiles, he wakes up feeling more alone than he has since he first returned to Beacon Hills and set foot in the charred remains of what used to his home.

 

 

The third time Derek dreams about Stiles, they’re in the forest. Derek presumes it’s the preserve; the trees feel familiar. He’s sitting down, leaning up against one now, and Stiles, in turn, is leaning against him, back flush against his chest. Derek has one arm wrapped around him; his other hand is carding through the other’s hair. When he leans forward to press a soft kiss to Stiles’ head, he breathes in and it smells like trees and dirt and _Stiles_. It smells like home. Derek likes it so much that he just stays there, curled around Stiles with his nose pressed into his neck as he inhales comfort.

Stiles is silent, just runs his hand along the arm around his chest.

It must be nearing night, because the sky is painted with golds and reds as sunset spills out across the firmament. The light filters through the foliage, dappling their skin and dancing across their eyes. Derek feels sleepy and content, so he closes his eyes against it.

“Don’t do that,” Stiles says. Derek makes a small noise and noses further into Stiles’ neck, wanting nothing more than to drift off with Stiles’ scent in his nose.

“Derek, you need to open your eyes.”

But Derek just tightens his grip on Stiles, not wanting to comply. He feels so comfortable.

“Derek, open your eyes!”

It’s less the command and more the panic in the other’s voice that finally has Derek cracking an eyelid. Stiles sounds scared, and his body is tense in Derek’s grip. It fills Derek with dread and makes his chest ache. Stiles starts to struggle, so Derek relinquishes his grip and lets Stiles turn around in his loosened hold. There’s concern and worry in the boy’s voice. It makes the ache in Derek’s chest more painful, so he brings his hands up to cup Stiles’ face.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, trying to soothe him as he strokes over his cheekbones, tracing each mole he finds within his reach.

But Stiles just shakes his head, brings his hands up to grip Derek’s wrists and pull him away.

“Derek, you need to open your eyes!” he pleads.

Derek shakes his head, confused.

“Stiles, my eyes are—“

“Derek, wake up. Please, you have to wake up!”

“Stiles, what are you—“

“I need you to wake up! Please, Derek!”

The desperation in Stiles’ voice shakes Derek, and his eyes shoot to where Stiles’ hand is wrapped around his wrist. And he starts to count.

 

1\. 2. 3. 4. 5. **_6_**.

 

He looks back at Stiles, confusion on his face, and the pain in his chest blooms into something near-unbearable.

“This is a—?”

 

The third time Derek dreams about Stiles, he wakes up on the cold operating table of Deaton’s clinic with a searing pain in his chest and a panicked boy with moles and red-rimmed eyes hovering over him.

 

 

The fourth time Derek dreams about Stiles, they’re back in the loft again with the soft glow of fading sunlight illuminating them. He’s lying there, hazy and warm and comfortable, and Stiles is standing at the edge of his bed, with half a grin on his face, like he can’t decide between amusement and nervousness. Derek huffs a little and slides over a little, making room for the boy. Stiles just looks at the space for a minute with a raised eyebrow, then finally sits on the very edge, feet still resting on the floor.

Derek huffs again, displeased, because he doesn’t want to waste time with Stiles playing coy. So he grabs Stiles by the upper arm and yanks him back. Stiles, yelps, flails, but Derek manages to get him to fall down onto the bed, maneuvering him so that his back is flush against Derek’s chest. Stiles is tense, heart beating so hard and fast that it’s a drum line in Derek’s ears.

“Um hey, dude, what the hell are you doing?”

Derek just grunts and throws an arm and a leg over Stiles’ frame. If he’d thought Stiles’ heart couldn’t go any quicker, he had been wrong.

“Uuuummm, okaaaay. So. Spooning. That’s a thing that’s happening now. Alright, yeah, okay. Not weird at all, man.”

Derek worms closer and presses a kiss to Stiles’ shoulder before burrowing his nose into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Stiles makes a strangled sound reminiscent of a dying animal. Derek just runs his hand down Stiles’ arm so that he can grab the other boy’s hand. At first, he tries to avoid it, counting. It always breaks the bubble a little bit—adds an ache of loneliness to something that previously had been so warm and perfect. But somehow it’s become a little reassuring, too. He likes his dreams with Stiles. They’re his secret, his guilty little pleasure. So he runs a thumb along Stiles’ fingers and starts to count.

 

1\. 2. 3. 4. 5… 5. Derek frowns, counts again. 5. He cracks open an eye and lifts up their hands, sitting up a little so he can stare at their fingers and count one more time. _5_. There are 5 fingers. The realization that he _isn’t_ dreaming hits him as hard as it did the second time he realized he _was_ , and for a moment he doesn’t breathe, heart frozen in his chest. He turns to look at Stiles, who has craned his neck to look up at Derek, and Derek is pretty sure that his own expression is mirroring Stiles’ wide-eyed one. Then Stiles looks at where Derek is still holding up their hands, and then back at Derek.

“Dude, did you think you were _dreaming_?” he asks, because Stiles is perceptive like that, and maybe Derek had been mouthing the numbers as he counted.

Derek just stares at Stiles in horror with a slack jaw and wide eyes, then drops his hand and scrambles back across the bed, putting as much distance between them as he can. But now Stiles has that inquisitive, tenacious look in his eye, and Derek swallows, trying and failing to come up with a plausible excuse.

“Dude, did you think you were dreaming?” he asks again, but Derek knows he already knows, so he just says,

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Stiles. I shouldn’t—I didn’t.”

And then Stiles just starts grinning, like the little shit he is.

“Oh my god, you totally were. You were totally down for dream cuddling.”

Derek looks away, tries to find something, _anything_ , in his apartment to distract him, but there’s nothing. He should really invest in more furniture. But it’s not like Stiles ever needed another participant for a conversation.

“Tell me, Derek, do you dream about snuggling everyone, or is it a just me kind of thing?”

Derek hangs his head and breathes deeply through his nose, wishing he were somewhere else.

“Just you,” he says, sounding as miserable as he feels.

Stiles freezes for a second, as if he wasn’t expecting an answer, or at least not _that_ answer, but then he surprises Derek by throwing his head back and _laughing_.

Derek is pretty sure it’s a “laughing with you” thing and not a “laughing at you” thing, so he allows himself to stare at the way Stiles laughs with every part of his body, how his mouth opens so wide Derek can see every one of his teeth. When he stops, he’s still grinning, and then he surprises Derek by flopping back down onto the bed. When Derek doesn’t move, Stiles looks over his shoulder at the older man with an expectant look.

“Well c’mon, man, let’s go. Stiles Stilinksi is here to make your dreams come true.”

His words sound confident, but Derek can hear the hummingbird-flutter of his pulse and he doesn’t move. Stiles rolls his eyes, and crooks a finger to beckon at Derek.

“Let’s go, I don’t have all day.”

Derek finally inches forward, lies down behind Stiles, careful not to touch him. Stiles huffs a breath and scooches back, then reaches behind him to grab Derek’s arm and pull it over his side.

“Spoon me, asshole.”

Derek snorts. If he’d still been thinking this was a dream, that would have settled it. Real Stiles is a lot more callous than Dream Stiles. But as Derek moves closer and buries his nose against Stiles’ neck again, he decides that he prefers the real version.

 

The fourth time Derek dreams about Stiles, he finds out it wasn’t a dream at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to start writing again, and after being immersed in the Teen Wolf fandom for a while, I couldn't help but get some Sterek inspiration. So yeaaaahh... hope you liked it. I started a shiny new [Tumblr](http://jarjol.tumblr.com/) where I'll probably post more fics, as well as general fandom stuff, so feel free to find me there (although it's a little empty right now)!


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